


a gentle touch

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Teasy Martin, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23881666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Martin may be the last person to find out that Jon is ticklish, but he's more than prepared to make up for lost time.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Melanie King & Jonathan Sims
Comments: 7
Kudos: 204
Collections: Anonymous





	a gentle touch

**Author's Note:**

> this was inevitable

See, the thing is that nobody ever dares to touch Jon in the first place. At least, they don't in high school. He gets to uni and manages to make a friend or two for the first time in his life and eventually figures out how to relax from his usual stiff awkwardness enough to do hugs and hand holding and even full-on spooning. And it's - it's not - it's. It's not…

It isn't Jon's least favorite thing in the world, alright.

Even when. Well. Well, there’s one late night at Melanie’s place, when she’s three drinks in and Georgie’s had eight and Jon’s still on his first, which puts them all at about the same level of tipsy. Jon has said something or another, he doesn’t remember, probably insufferably pretentious, and then he’s cut off as Melanie makes an angry little noise and pounces on him.

She pins him down on her sofa easily. Melanie is shorter than Jon, but she’s wiry and strong and Jon is built like three sticks in a blazer. Jon's breath catches, trembles in his throat. He hadn't been  _ expecting  _ this, per se, but it has not escaped his notice that Melanie is pretty.

And then she starts tickling him with a vengeance. Jon  _ shrieks _ and then starts laughing outright, Melanie's assault too forceful to allow him even the dignity of pretending for a bit that he's gasping and squirming for unrelated reasons. She pinches his ribs til his laughter rises to near-sobs, and then flips him over and sits on the back of his thighs. Jon struggles weakly, but can't manage more than a  _ "Please-" _

"Not a chance in hell," says Melanie. Her fingernails crawl up his sides, torturous through the thin t-shirt, and then settle under his arms, scritching and stroking.

Jon cries out and bucks up under her.  _ "Melanie-" _

Melanie grabs what a kinder person might call Jon’s bicep and pulls it up, pinning it. She digs her fingers into his underarm, and Jon flails helplessly beneath her. Melanie tickles down his side and then starts squeezing at the jut of his hipbone, and Jon shoves his face into the sofa cushions and shakes apart with laughter.

When she does let him up, Jon wheezes and flops around for a bit, recovering. Melanie looks full satisfied with herself, even as Jon sits up and attempts, fruitlessly, to un-muss his hair.

Georgie, meanwhile, is leaning forward, looking absolutely fascinated. “I didn’t know you were  _ ticklish.” _

Jon looks at the glint in her eye, and gulps.

* * *

Terms come and go. Jon lives a generally peaceful life, save for the occasional instances when Melanie or Georgie decides that the quickest way to shut him up is by tickling his ribs til he can't do anything but wheeze. Or when Tim's feeling particularly mischievous and takes it out on Jon by putting him in a bear hug and dancing his fingertips over Jon's sides to draw out giggles.

He manages to get himself a boyfriend, Martin, a friend of Tim and Sasha's. They're still honeymoon phasing after about three months, Jon kind of dazed that he managed to land someone like this, and Martin's touches are gentle and cuddly and don't even tickle a little bit.

Jon doesn't even think about it until one Friday evening when they’re at Tim and Sasha’s flat, blasting their brains with Mario Kart. Tim has won the latest round by pure  _ cheating. _

“A blue shell victory,” Jon sniffs, “is no victory at all. You might as well have come in eighth for all the honor it brings you.”

“Oh?” says Tim, putting his controller down.

Jon narrows his eyes. He doesn’t like that tone. “Yes…?”

Tim grins down at him and squeezes his side. Jon startles violently.  _ "Tim-" _

_ “Oh?” _ says Martin, on Jon’s other side.

“Just watch,” Sasha tells him.

_ “Really-?” _

_ “Tim-” _

The problem being, of course, that Tim is tall and muscled and Jon has the size and strength of a small branch. Tim scoops him up like it's nothing and starts kneading at his sides. Jon gasps and struggles, but he doesn't have a chance. "What, didn't tell your boyfriend you're ticklish?"

Martin seems to be laughing at him.  _ Traitor. _ Jon curses and squirms and then Tim's wriggling fingers scoot up into Jon's armpits and Jon can't  _ help _ but start snorting out laughter. He curls up, resigning himself to the assault, and buries his face in Tim's chest as he shakes with giggles.

Tim finally lets up once Jon is mostly just hiccupping and twitching. Jon shudders in relief, resting limp and boneless in Tim's lap. Tim is pretty much just hugging him now. "You're an ass," Jon mumbles, even as he relaxes into the embrace.

Tim hums, unrepentant. "Laughing's good for you."

Jon narrows his eyes. "Oh, is it, now?"

"Oh - oh,  _ hey _ now-"

He's laughing before Jon even gets his hands on him. Tim is one of those strange creatures who actually likes being tickled. Doesn't make it any less satisfying to reduce him to a helpless, giggling mess in return. He could probably throw Jon off if he wanted to, but instead he collapses back against the sofa and lets Jon squeeze and knead at his sides and ribs until he's weak and wheezing. And then Sasha crawls over Martin to get in on Tim’s torment, and the situation devolves rapidly.

“I can’t  _ believe  _ I didn’t know this,” Martin says, wondering, over the chaos.

* * *

“So,” Martin says later that night, as they step inside the door of their flat. Jon goes completely still. “I didn’t know you were so ticklish.”

“I suppose,” Jon sighs, “it’d be futile to argue that I’m not.”

Trying to hide the shake in his voice is equally futile, it turns out. Martin raises an eyebrow as he pulls off his shoes. “You seem upset about it.”

“It’s inconvenient,” Jon grumbles, kicking off his own Converse. “And silly. And - people take advantage of it.”

“Mm? How’s that?”

“Well - you  _ saw, _ Tim likes to  _ torture me.” _ Just thinking about it makes Jon wrap his arms around his sides.

Martin hangs up his coat and then turns back to Jon, pushing his hands into his pockets and rocking back onto his heels. He looks entirely too interested in all this. “It’s…”

“It’s what?”

“Cute.” A grin flashes over Martin’s face. “It’s really cute, actually.”

Jon opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again, meaning to say something along the lines of  _ well, that’s your own poor taste. _ What comes out instead is, “I - I mean, I don’t  _ mind _ it, per se.”

“Oh?”

“It’s - it’s more about - people using it to embarrass me, or to get me to do something - the actual act is - I don’t - it’s not  _ bad, _ it’s actually kind of-” Martin is looking closer to laughter by the moment, so Jon just gives up and finishes with a huff, “I - I don’t dislike touch.”

“Yeah,” says Martin, fond, “I know.”

He wraps his arms around Jon and walks both of them over to their sofa, and, well, Jon isn’t one to say no to a good makeout session. Martin sits down sideways, leaning against the arm of the sofa, and pulls Jon into his lap. Jon kisses him, open-mouthed and lingering.

“So,” Martin says after a few minutes of this. His hands are resting on Jon’s waist, and they’re not moving at all but -  _ still. _ “You wouldn’t mind if I tickled you.”

Jon shifts around in his lap a bit. “You could at least allow me the dignity of phrasing it like a question.”

“You already said as much,” Martin points out. Jon draws back a little and examines him closely - is that a glint of mischief? “I kind of think you want me to, is the thing.”

“You’re teasing, aren’t you,” Jon realizes. He can feel himself starting to flush. “You’re  _ teasing me.” _

“Little bit,” says Martin. Jon huffs at him. Martin smiles back. “Oh - come on, it  _ is _ cute. Seeing you all flustered.” Idly, his thumbs drift up under the hem of Jon’s t-shirt to rest against bare skin. Jon tenses. “And I like it when you smile.”

“It’s  _ hardly  _ the same when it’s involuntary-”

He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale. Martin’s stroking just above his waistband with the pads of each thumb. Jon manages to hold himself still, but he’s trembling, goosebumps racing down his shoulderblades.

“It kind of is the same,” Martin murmurs. “Even better, sometimes.”

He scritches gently at Jon’s hipbones. Half a laugh trips out of Jon’s throat, and he takes a grip on Martin’s shoulders, bracing himself. Martin smiles up at him, kisses him again, and, without breaking contact, flutters his fingers against the dip of Jon's waist. Jon barely manages to hold himself together for a beat before his lips are curling up against Martin’s, trying and failing to continue the kiss.

Martin tickles lightly at his sides for a moment, and Jon squirms around in his lap letting out bitten-off squeaks and huffs of laughter. When Martin stops, he smooths a hand up Jon's side, and Jon shivers even at that. "Not so bad, yeah?"

Jon grumbles at him.

Martin tweaks his side, watches him jerk, and snorts a laugh. “Pfft - oh, don't look at me like that, you’re not even trying to stop me.”

"It's - that's different, it's  _ you-" _

Martin's looking at him like he's falling in love all over again, which is  _ really _ not helping Jon's rising flush. "Can I do it more?"

"I'm not  _ stopping you." _

"You aren't," Martin agrees, sounding entirely too tender for a man who's about to rain down hell.

He winds his arms around Jon's waist, holding him snug against his chest. His fingers are resting right against Jon's waist again, and Jon is quivering before Martin even starts wriggling his fingers into the soft parts of Jon's sides. He wraps his arms around Martin's shoulders and buries his face in Martin's sweater. Martin, meanwhile, busies himself with finding all the spots on Jon's back and sides that get him twitching.

It doesn't take long for Jon to break. He's holding out alright, muffling his aborted half-laughter in Martin's sweater, but then Martin slides his hands up between the two of their bodies and drags his fingertips down Jon's stomach. When Jon startles back a few inches, Martin takes advantage to scoot his hands underneath the hem of Jon's shirt, and then he's scribbling at Jon's tummy and Jon starts laughing outright, bubbling up out of his throat. Before long, he's quivering with laughter as Martin works over his belly, and Martin's watching him with an utterly enraptured smile.

"I think this is the most I've ever heard you laugh," he says.

Jon begins to say something keenly witty and then Martin pinches the juts of his hipbones and he cuts himself off with his own spluttered giggles. "I - I - I-"

"Mmhmm?" Martin’s fingertips scoot up Jon’s sides and start gently kneading at his lower ribs.

Jon clings to Martin’s shoulders, just barely holding back his spasms. "Pfffahahah- it's -  _ silly-" _

"You're the one laughing!"

Martin wraps his arms around Jon and pushes him down onto the sofa cushions, crowding up between his legs. Jon’s laughter breaks for a moment - but Martin doesn't give him a chance to recover, just leans down over him and starts drilling his thumbs into Jon’s ribs. Jon goes helpless and floppy beneath him, bubbling up with helpless laughter and a wide, silly smile.

Martin’s touch is  _ wicked, _ but when Jon finally manages to wheeze out, “let me  _ breathe,” _ he lays off. Jon gasps in air for a few moments. Martin’s weight is a pleasant squish on top of him.

After he’s somewhat recovered, Jon says, “…Are you going to do any more?”

He’d meant it to sound accusatory. He fails.

Martin sits up so he can gaze down at Jon. He looks utterly, horribly delighted. “Jon.”

“No.”

_ “Jon.” _

_ “No.” _

“You,” says Martin, “want me to tickle you more.”

“I didn’t s-” Jon chokes halfway through the word. Martin is kneading at his hipbones again. He tries again: “I didn’t  _ say-” _

“You did,” says Martin. “You like this.” He nuzzles at Jon's throat, curls brushing against his neck, and Jon  _ whines. _ “You like being tickled.”

Jon's face feels hot all the way down to the collarbone. He's squirming for more reasons than the tickling now - Martin’s kissing down his neck, and Jon doesn’t do sex, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t all a manner of sensitive, especially with the conflicting sensations wearing down his defenses. “I -  _ hhahah _ \- I-”

“Tell me you don’t,” says Martin. “Cause I’m pretty sure you’re enjoying this.”

Jon realizes, with a start, that he’s got his arms wrapped around Martin, pulling him closer and leaving Jon’s sides completely vulnerable. He yanks his arms back, and then kind, gentle Martin is laughing harder than  _ he _ is, pushing his hands up inside Jon’s shirt to tickle him mercilessly. “I - it doesn’t - that doesn’t mean I - I’ve got my  _ dignity, _ alright-”

“Oh, would you just shut up,” Martin says affectionately. He scribbles his fingers over Jon’s ribs. Jon protests vocally, but then Martin's kissing the laughter right out of his mouth, digging his fingers into the sensitive spots just below the hollows of his underarms. And, at last, Jon gives up, just letting himself laugh and laugh and laugh.

Martin doesn't let up until Jon is too exhausted to even squirm. Even then, he scoops Jon into his lap and strokes up and down his side, keeping Jon twitchy even as he recovers his breath.

“You’re  _ evil,” _ Jon wheezes out after a few minutes. “The worst. My  _ god.” _

"Yeah," agrees Martin. "Want me to do it again?"

_ “No,” _ Jon huffs.

“Mm,” says Martin.

“N - maybe,” Jon adds.

Martin raises an eyebrow.

“Not  _ yet.” _ Martin’s biting back a smile, and Jon does his level best to glare at him. “I - at least give me a few -  _ stop smirking at me.” _

And Martin, predictably, doesn’t.


End file.
